


Holiday

by elldotsee



Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Sherlock and John on Holiday, Sherlock is a bit of a romantic, Showing Off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25236289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: Sherlock decides to take John on a holiday. When John discovers the location is not one he planned to ever visit again, he nearly balks, but their greeting is warm and welcoming.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807645
Comments: 36
Kudos: 71
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> I typed this up after a very long day floating on a boat in a lake (oh the hardship!). I am tired and sunburned. This has not been proofread.

“John!” 

Sherlock’s voice boomed up the stairs, only serving to make John roll his eyes, tugging harder on the uncooperative zipper of his duffle bag. 

“Yes, coming, just… as soon as I… aha! Bloody ancient duffle. I’ll show you who’s boss!” 

He flung the strap over his shoulder triumphantly and took a last look around the sitting room. Sherlock’s mobile was on the arm of his chair. 

“Sh’lock! You left your mo—” 

Sherlock plucked it from John’s hand with one hand, making a show of rubbing his ear with the other. 

“Ow, John. No need to shout. I’m right here. I came back up to get my phone. Are you nearly ready? We should’ve been on the road ten minutes ago!” 

“‘Should’ve?’ According to whose schedule, hm? You do know that holidays are supposed to be for relaxing? Taking it easy?”

Still grumbling, John followed Sherlock down the stairs and out to the kerb, where the rental car was idling. He loaded his beat-up duffle in next to Sherlock’s much posher suitcase and slammed the back door shut. Sherlock had rented a Land Rover, citing that he liked them especially for the leg room. John didn’t necessarily need extra leg room, but he appreciated the spaciousness all the same as he slid into the passenger seat. The interior was clean, and smelled like air freshener, though John didn’t notice one dangling from the rear mirror.

Sherlock was drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and was already pulling out into the sparse mid-afternoon traffic before John even had his belt on. 

“What’s the rush, hm? Got somewhere to be? We’ve got at least an hour before rush hour starts.”

“I’d like to arrive before dark.” Was all the response John received. He settled back against the seat, content to let Sherlock lead the way. John didn’t know where they were going, but he found he didn’t mind much. Sherlock had asked him after work a few days prior if John could take a long weekend off from the clinic. John hadn’t questioned it, but assumed it was for a case, though they rarely ever received so much notice. It wasn’t until last night when he had asked Sherlock for the details of the case and received a blank look in return that he learned that Sherlock was taking him on a _holiday._

“I thought we could both use a few days off.” Had been the only explanation. So John had packed a bag (“bring something warm for the evenings, but otherwise the climate is exactly the same”) and made sure to bring his laptop and appropriate chargers. At the last moment, he had also packed his unloaded gun, because one could just never be too sure while in the company of Sherlock Holmes. Criminals just seemed to be drawn to him like a magnet sometimes. 

Sherlock merged onto the motorway and headed southwest. They’d barely cleared the city before John’s eyelids began to droop, the extra hours of working at the clinic and on cases catching up to him. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, that was certain. 

He propped his head on his fist against the window and was just barely conscious enough to notice Sherlock’s hand reach over and flick on the car’s radio. The soft classical music and the hypnotic whirr of tyres on pavement lulled him the rest of the way to sleep in no time at all. 

When he awoke, it was to a dreary and wet dusk, the last vestiges of filtered spring light making the raindrops glitter on the windscreen. John sat up, rubbing his eyes blearily. 

“Where the bloody hell are you taking me?” 

“Oh good, you’re awake. We’re very nearly there and I could use an extra pair of eyes to find the road. Also, Devon.” 

“I remember there was a bit of a fork, and I believe we must take a left…” Sherlock murmured to himself, flicking the map on his phone with one finger.

“Let me.” John took the phone from the clip on the dash, squinting at the map. “What’s the name of the — wait, remembered? Somewhere you’ve been, then? What, does your family own some country pile? ‘The Holmes Manor’?”

Sherlock glanced sidelong at him. “John, surely you recognise where we are? Or have you deleted it? They do say that repressing memories are one indicator of post-traumatic stress disorder…” Once again, Sherlock trailed off, his eyes still on the road but developing the glazed look that meant his mind was far away. Thankfully, they appeared to be the only car for kilometers. 

“Recognise… how would I? Oh. _Oh._ Devon?! No. No nope no. I’m not going in there again.” He whirled in his seat. “You call this a sodding holiday? Revisiting the place where I almost _died?_ Is that your idea of a good time — ha ha, let’s make John relive some of his most terrible memories! What’s next, a lovely scenic view from the rooftop of Bart—” He clamped his mouth shut as Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, though they never left the road. 

“Sorry. Sorry. That was… that was a low blow. I know you wouldn’t… sorry, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock gave a short nod, and his lips tightened at the corners, but he said nothing. 

“It’s just up here… yeah, go to the left at the fork. Right there. And then I think… yeah, okay. You’ve got it now.” John's voice was subdued, and he didn't say anything else until they arrived at their destination, the primitive and quaint Cross Key's Inn exactly how he remembered it. 

Gravel crunched under the Land Rover’s tyres as Sherlock swung the car around and parked. The rain had stopped, though the lingering gloom made it nearly dark despite the official sunset still being an hour or so away. Sherlock turned off the car but did not make any move to open the car door.

He turned to look at John. 

“John. We will not be visiting any secret military bases or leading a hound hunt through any mires. We will have a… relaxing…” He said the word as though it was foreign to him. John thought it probably was the first time he’d ever said it unironically in his life. “...four days and then return to London in one piece on Monday. I do hope you’re not disappointed.” He flashed a cheeky grin, but John could see that his eyes were a bit worried. John sighed. 

“Yes, alright. But why here?” 

“I thought… well I just thought maybe it would be nice to rewrite some of those memories.” Sherlock shrugged. “I can’t imagine you have very many pleasant ones from this trip. Nor do I, though there were highlights. So maybe… we can make new ones.” He waggled his eyebrows theatrically, before grabbing the door handle and sliding out, all graceful elegance in six feet of long limbs. 

John grunted and followed suit, still feeling apprehensive, but also surprisingly touched. 

* * *

“Sherlock?? _Sherlock Holmes_? Gary! Gary, c’mere, it’s Sherlock Holmes!” Billy came around the bar top and embraced Sherlock tightly in a one-armed hug. Sherlock could feel the eyes of several patrons on him, but they were all politely British enough to fix their attention back to their food quickly.

“Billy, if you don’t mind, we’d love to—” Sherlock untangled himself from Billy’s grasp and pressed his forefinger to his lips. “We’re just hoping for some peace and qu—” 

“Sherlock!” Gary boomed as he came through the swinging door that led to the back storerooms. “The great Sherlock Holmes, back again!” He surged forward, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Is it another case?” 

Billy interrupted him, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. “He said ‘we’, I was just about to ask him if ‘we’ meant he brought his partner— ooh, sorry. Your er, detective partner, I mean. Not your partner- _partner._ ” He rolled his eyes self-deprecatingly. “Made that mistake already!” 

“Well, actually—” 

The door to the inn swung open and John straggled in, his duffle bag balanced precariously atop Sherlock’s rolling suitcase.

“Doctor Watson!” The inn owners shouted gleefully in unison, as though greeting a long-lost friend, rather than someone who once tried to implicate them in a crime. John gave them a nod and a wave before stomping off, presumably in search of the loo. At least, that’s where Sherlock hoped he had gone, and not tearing back off in the Land Rover like a demon hound. 

Gary reached across the bartop and grasped Sherlock’s forearm. Sherlock tried not to shake it off as he watched John’s retreating back. Gary’s hands were slightly damp, doubtless from the anxiety he still struggled with. 

“Tell me, will you two be staying the night? We’re nearly booked, but I think we can make an exception for a pair of celebrities. We owe you both so much. Our popularity has boomed since the Hounds case. People coming from all over just to walk the moors and hypothesize about government conspiracies in droves more than ever before! Can sure bet those Baskerville folk have had a whole load more attention, but so have we, so no complaints here, aye Billy?” 

Billy smiled and nodded as he slid behind Gary to greet a new couple that were settling themselves at a small table tucked into the window alcove, whispering into their hands as they exchanged furtive glances in their direction. Sherlock turned his back to them and addressed Gary once more. 

“Yes, I made a reservation.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Under William Scott, just in case. Didn’t want any unwanted attention.” He tipped his head in the direction of the young women who were now not even attempting to hide their very obvious eavesdropping. Sherlock sighed theatrically. “You know how it goes.”

Gary gave him a very serious nod. “Of course, of course. But Sherlock— sorry, should I call you William? — I’m so sorry, there was a mistake, a misunderstanding with your reservation. Billy must have done. I only have you booked for one room. I’m not making that mistake again, I know you made it very clear last time that you and John were _not_ a couple, though the way that man goes on about you on that blog of his… well, you just can _tell_ things about people sometimes. Read them, you know? Especially when they’re… but you, you said you’re not and I respect that. I respect people’s boundaries and labels. If that’s not what you’re comfortable with, than I respect that. I should be able to switchsies a few other people around and…” He tapped at his ancient reservation book with his pen, humming thoughtfully. 

Sherlock held up a hand. “Gary, that won’t be necessary.” 

“Nonsense. Like I said, we owe you both. Will change that right away for you gentlemen. Oh god, I hope that didn’t cause any tension last time, we just assumed, never should. _Never_ should. Just as bad as being assumed to be straight… _still_ we get that when we go out, Billy ‘n me. Been together so long I think we’re starting to look alike but people just see two blokes, having a gay old time together.” 

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, letting out a gusty sigh. He opened his mouth to cut off the stream of blather, but John was quicker, choosing that perfect moment to return from the loo. In a rare form of public affection, he slid his arm round Sherlock’s waist, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“What’s this then? Something the matter with our room?” John’s voice was crisp, confident, in control. Sherlock thought he’d never loved him more. 

“Nothing the matter at all, in fact. Gary here was _just about_ to give us the keys to our room so we can _get on with our holiday,_ weren’t you Gary?” 

Gary spluttered, his eyes wide as they bounced from John’s arm to both of their faces, now only inches apart. Sherlock held his hand out and blinked at him, waiting. God, but people were slow. 

“Billy! Billy come quick!” 

Sherlock groaned. 

Billy flew from somewhere in the building, coming to stand behind John and Sherlock. John had already dropped his arm, but was standing close to Sherlock, their body’s touching in multiple places. Sherlock found it very distracting and prayed to the gods of gay innkeepers that these two would speed up all their squawking and just _give them the key._ Instead, Gary leaned his arms on the bar, beaming. 

“Billy! Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson! We weren’t wrong when they came last, we were just too _early_. They hadn’t figured it out yet, but look at them! Now they have!” 

Billy clapped them both on the shoulders, his grin matching his partner’s. 

“Aye, but isn’t that lovely!? A real romantic murder mystery! And I bet all the intrigue and death-defying keeps it exciting. Good on ya! Dyfal donc a dyr y garreg. A pint to celebrate and then you can go to your room. I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do. All that time lost!” 

Billy continued his mutterings as Gary poured them two pints, as well as two smaller glasses for him and Billy. He distributed them, raising his for a toast. 

“To new beginnings with old friends! Iechyd da.” 

John nudged Sherlock with his shoulder, lifting his own glass. Sherlock followed suit and the quartet all clinked glasses. 

"To new beginnings. And only one bed." John winked at Sherlock.   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The Google tells me "dyfal donc a dyr y garreg" is a Welsh proverb, akin to "slow and steady wins the race". I like to headcanon that Billy had to work for a bit to win over Gary, so he knows a bit about persistence. 
> 
> And "Iechyd da" is a drinking toast. Literally "Good health!" 
> 
> I made both Billy and Gary Welsh, even though the actors are Scottish and Irish, respectfully, because the real (filming location) of the Cross Keys Inn is in Wales (The Bush Inn). And I just wanted to.


End file.
